


Lucky Cigarette

by sofia_gigante



Series: Scene of the Crime [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Arguing, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Coital, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:51:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Fischer negotiates with Eames. It doesn’t go very well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Cigarette

**Author's Note:**

> *THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR SCENE OF THE CRIME.*
> 
> This is an alternate ending/epilogue to the fic that became [Scene of the Crime](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5617915). This was submitted to the Inception Fanbook as a stand-alone story, before I had finished SotC. This shows the intended direction for the ending. 
> 
> And, as always, big, big thanks to Castillon02 for her amazing beta skills. THIS is where the madness began. ;)

The afternoon breeze blew hot, billowing the curtain open enough to let a dagger of sun stab the bed. The harsh light briefly revealed a white sheet twined around a muscular leg, the tanned planes of a chiseled torso. The sounds of the street drifted up from the open window—the honking horns, chattering voices, and Ohangla music that was the symphony of Mombasa.

“Give us a smoke, will you, love?”

Robert picked up the pack on the table beside him. It was almost empty; the only cigarette left was the upside down “lucky” that Eames always flipped when he opened a fresh pack. Appropriate. Eames could use all the luck he could get right now.

Robert tossed the box onto the bed before turning back to the open window. He let out a long stream of smoke, studying the half-burned cigarette. Smoking. Just another of the dirty little habits he had to hide 99% of the time. But here, with Eames, he didn’t have to hide anything.

No sense in hiding things from the man who’d been inside your head.

He heard the creak of the mattress springs behind him, then the click of a lighter. An exhale like a sigh, and Robert had to use all his willpower not to turn around to look at the naked figure on the rumpled bed.

“Still mad at me, then?”

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No.”

“Then yes. I’m still mad at you.”

This time he knew for sure it was a sigh. “Why do you have to be like this, Robby?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Fine. I’ll call you an arse.”

Robert whipped his head to face Eames. “I’m being an ass? You’re the one who’s being stubborn!”

The wind blew the curtain open again, and this time the light cut across Eames’ broad face, the cigarette dangling from his plump bottom lip. Robert tried not to be distracted by that perfect mouth, but his body hummed with fresh memories of recent pleasure.

That was what had gotten them into this mess: Eames’ fucking perfect mouth. It had been the first thing Robert had noticed about him, those thick lips wrapped around the straw of a God-awful tropical drink. It had just kept going from there—first it lured Robert into his confidence with lies, and then into his bed with truths. Robert had studied that mouth in quiet wonder while Eames had slept, not knowing that it would be the lynchpin he needed to gel together the fractured dream he had spent millions of dollars and years of research struggling to recreate. The next time he’d gone into the dream, Robert had clearly seen that perfect mouth on the face of the kidnapper in the taxi beside him. So, he’d done the only thing he could do.

And now, a year later, they were here.

Robert stubbed out the smoke. Distantly, over the sound of the city below, he heard the first low note of an oboe. He was almost out of time.

“All they want is a name. One good name—”

“No.”

“—and they’ll reduce your sentence from 20 to 2 years.”

“I told you, Robert, I’m not a snitch.” Eames’ tone was as sharp as a knife, slicing the fraying lifeline Robert was throwing him.

“So, you’d rather rot in here than come out and join the living? You don’t miss sunlight, decent food? Freedom?”

_You don’t miss me?_

 Eames was silent, taking a long, slow pull from his cigarette.

“I talk, and I’m dead,” he whispered.

Now they were getting somewhere. Robert crossed the small room, dropped down beside Eames onto the creaky bed.

“I can protect you.”

Eames laughed bitterly. “Oh, love—”

“I’m serious! I still have connections, places we can hide.”

“Really, you’d give up your new company, all those shiny new contracts coming in, the reputation you’re building for yourself as _the_ name in dream defense technology—”

“Yes.” Robert’s heart slammed against his ribs, the truth so large and terrifying he could barely utter it. “For you, yes.”

Robert reached out to touch Eames, but he let his hand fall short when he saw Eames begin to flinch away. His stomach churned as he realized what this meant.

“I can’t let you do that, Robby, not after everything you’ve worked for,” Eames said quietly. “Not after what I did to you.”

He met Robert’s gaze, and for one moment, Robert could read the genuine remorse etched in the pale blue.  It was so raw, so honest, it cooled some of the frustration boiling under Robert’s skin. This was just part of the dance with Eames—transgression, forgiveness, acceptance. One, two, three; one two, three.  Robert wondered if there would ever be a time they could stop dancing and just...just _be_.

The chances were becoming slimmer by the second.

Eames licked his lips, an unconscious little tongue flicker, and Robert’s entire being hummed. Like a magnet snapping to metal, he was pulled towards Eames. Damn that mouth.

He kissed Eames hard, crushing their lips together. Eames palmed the back of Robert’s head to pull him even closer. Eames’ lips spoke the words he couldn’t say out loud, letting Robert taste the true depths of his tenderness, his desire.

When the kiss ended, Robert held on, his forehead pressed against Eames’.

“They’re not going to let me come back, especially not alone like this,” Robert whispered.

“I know.”

“Then why...” He couldn’t keep talking through the lump growing in his throat.

“Hey, hey, don’t.” Eames cupped Robert’s cheek, forcing his face up. There was urgency in his look, and within moments the apartment began to tremble. Time was up. “You’ll see me again.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will. I know you will, love.” Eames gave him a smile. “You’ll find a way back to me.”

Robert pulled Eames into his arms, clinging tightly as bits of plaster and timber began to rain down on them. Eames gripped back just as tightly.

“One name,” Robert pleaded, one final time. “For me, Eames.” _For us._

He could feel Eames’ lips against his earlobe, his breath hot and moist. He was about to speak, to confess—

Something hard struck Robert’s skull, and he felt something _give_ sickeningly for a split second before his eyes flew open.

There was no window. No sunlight. Just a cold, fluorescent light flickering above him in a cracked, water stained ceiling.

“He was going to talk. Just…just give me five more minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fischer. Time’s up.” The lawyers were already putting away their papers, their faces creased in resignation.

Robert struggled to sit up on the grimy little cot. It made the dream of Eames’ creaky bed feel luxurious by comparison.

 “I had him this time. He’s ready to crack.”

“That’s what you said the last time.” The lead attorney sighed. “And the time before that.”

“These sorts of operations take time. Subtlety.”

“You’re starting to sound like one of them.” The lawyer nodded towards the large, glass window beside him.

Robert didn’t want to look, but he did anyway. Eames was on the other side, sitting up on his own cot. They could have been mirror images, except that while Robert was dressed in a crisp Armani suit, Eames was clad in an orange jumpsuit. That, and he had handcuffs manacling one of his wrists to the bed.

Eames sat motionless as a uniformed prison guard removed the needle from his forearm. The guard on Robert’s end pulled the tubing through the tiny hole in the bulletproof glass and coiled it back into the PASIV device at Robert’s side.  Resigned, Robert yanked the needle from his own arm, his last contact with Eames officially severed.

Eames met his eye through the glass. His expression remained blank as a new piece of paper….except for his eyes. They had that same look he’d given him right before they’d kissed—the layers of hardness cracked open, exposing the raw core of him. Tenderness. Desire.

Regret.

The lawyer’s briefcase snapped shut, the sound as final as the slam of a prison door.

“Frankly, Mr. Fischer, I don’t understand why you want to help appeal a case for a felon that you helped put away.”

“He could be very useful to me,” Robert said, forcing his voice to remain as impassive as Eames’ face. “With his unique skills in dream sharing, he would be a valuable asset to my research.”

“Looks like you’re going to have to find someone else. There’s nothing we can do if he won’t talk.”

Eames rose, his hands now manacled together in front of him. The guard behind him spoke, and Eames began to walk away. Panic gripped Robert’s heart. A mad part of him wanted to pound the window with his fists, to yell at Eames for being such a stubborn bastard.

_Give them what they want!_

_Then we can have what_ we _want._

All Eames gave the attorneys was a sly little wink, though, and then he was gone, ushered back into the prison. Robert watched, his heart in his throat, refusing to look away until the door clanged shut behind him.

Robert exited the prison in a daze, shaking hands with the lawyers in the parking area. They didn’t even bother lying to him about trying to find new ways to shorten Eames’ sentence. As the first person successfully convicted of a “mind crime” in a court of law, there were many, many powerful people with an invested interest in keeping Eames locked away…

And Robert had been the one who’d put him there.

He slid into the back of the black car waiting for him in the parking lot.

“He didn’t talk, did he?”

“No. He didn’t.” Bitterness leaked into Robert’s voice. “You’re all safe.”

Arthur nodded. He had the grace not to say what he was really thinking: _“good.”_

“Eames can be surprisingly loyal,” he said instead.

“Stubborn,” Robert hissed.

“That he is.” A ghost of a smile played at the corners of Arthur’s thin lips. Robert had to resist the urge to plant his fist into that mouth. But it wouldn’t do to punch his new business partner, not when he was the one who had the connections that had gotten Robert this far. Without him—without his boss, Saito—Robert may truly never see Eames again.

The cruel irony was not lost on Robert.

Arthur directed his driver to take them back to the airport. Robert watched as the prison slid out of view, trying not to think of Eames still locked behind those thick concrete walls, trapped beyond countless barbed fences.

Arthur cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth, I’m so—”

“Don’t.”

Arthur fell silent again, and when he next spoke, his words were cautious. “Maybe if we can’t get him out, we can get you in.”

“The lawyers made it clear that they were done letting me question him.”

“No more lawyers. Maybe what Eames needs is a therapist.”

Robert’s curiosity was piqued, but he kept silent.

“Perhaps your organization should focus on dream therapy as a means of rehabilitating prisoners.”

Hope pricked at Robert’s bruised heart. It sounded legitimate enough, the sort of do-good program he could undertake to boost his company’s image as a legitimate government resource.

“I think that would be something we’d be interested in,” Robert said slowly. “I’ll have a program outline and budget for you to review by the end of the month.”

Robert refused to let himself get excited. It was just an idea; there was no guarantee they’d be able to get this off the ground. But he’d give about anything for the chance to see Eames again, to be free together—even if only in their minds.

A familiar craving rushed through him. This time, he didn’t fight it back.

“Pull over here,” Robert told the driver as a gas station came into view.

“Is everything all right?” Arthur asked.

“It’s fine. Just need to pick something up.”

It only took him a minute to make his purchase. When he got back into the car, tamping down his pack of cigarettes, Arthur looked at him as if he’d grown a second head.

“You’re not smoking in here.”

“Yes, I am.” Robert pulled out a cigarette and flipped it upside down, then slid it back into the pack.

“Lucky cigarette, huh?” Arthur snorted, and then shook his head as he rolled down his window. “You two.”

Robert didn’t admit just how much he really liked the sound of that: _“you two.”_

“What can I say?” he said through teeth clenched around the butt of a cigarette. “We need all the luck we can get right now.”


End file.
